Compassion

There is a picture, that I sometimes see, Of Jesus, with a child upon his breast. And other children clustered at his knee-- The little lambs of God, that he had blest. And this one--lying on the Saviour's arm Looks up and smiles, in that most sainted face, And knowing he is well secured from harm He falls asleep in that safe resting place.

To-night I am so weary, heart, and soul. So worn out, with a thousand nameless ills. My spirit longs intensely for its goal And every fibre of my being thrills With mighty yearning. "Oh, to be that child-- To lie upon my Saviour's breast." I weep, "And looking on that face so meekly mild. Forget my tears, and sweetly fall asleep."

It is not always so: sometimes the earth And earthly friends, can satisfy my heart. But now--to-night--I feel their shallow worth, And feel, Oh, Christ my Saviour, that Thou art And Thou alone, the only faithful friend Who knowing all my sins, and seeing me Just as I am, will pity to the end And in compassion, judge me tenderly.

I am so weak, and sinful--every day The sins and failings that I most condemn, And most abhor in others--I straightway Go forth, and wickedly walk into them. But Christ, who was in mortal form one time And dwelt upon the earth, will understand. And through a love and pity most sublime, Will write me out a pardon with His hand.

1869.